know whut I’d do ef I didn’t have Mas’ Bob to wuk fu’. You got ol’ Miss
Randolph’s present ready fu’ him?”
“Co’se I has. I done made him somep’n’ diffunt dis yeah.”
“Made him somep’n’ diffunt—whut you say, Lize?” exclaimed the old man,
laying his knife and fork on his plate and looking up at his wife with
wide-open eyes. “You ain’t gwine change afteh all dese yeahs?”
“Yes. I jes’ pintly had to. It’s been de same thing now fu’ mo’ ’n twenty
yeahs.”
“Whut you done made fu’ him?”
“I’s made him a comfo’t to go roun’ his naik.”
“But, Lize, ol’ Miss Cla’indy allus sont him gloves knit wif huh own
han’. Ain’t you feared Mas’ Estridge gwine to ’spect?”
“No, he ain’t gwine to ’spect. He don’t tek no notice o’ nuffin’, an’ he
jes’ pintly had to have dat comfo’t fu’ his naik, ’ca’se he boun’ to go
out in de col’ sometime er ruther an’ he got plenty gloves.”
“I’s feared,” said the old man, sententiously, “I’s mighty feared. I
wouldn’t have Mastah know we been doin’ fu’ him an’ a-sendin’ him dese
presents all dis time fu’ nuffin’ in de worl’. It ’u’d hu’t him mighty
bad.”
“He ain’t foun’ out all dese yeahs, an’ he ain’t gwine fin’ out now.”
The old man shook his head dubiously, and ate the rest of his meal in
silence.
It was a beautiful Christmas morning as he wended his way across the
lawn to his old master’s room, bearing the tray of breakfast things and
“ol’ Miss Randolph’s present,”—a heavy home-made scarf. The air was
full of frosty brightness. Ike was happy, for the frost had turned the
persimmons. The ’possums had gorged themselves, and he had one of the
fattest of them for his Christmas dinner. Colonel Estridge was sitting
in his old place by the window. He crumbled an old yellow envelope in
his hand as Ike came in and set the things down. It looked like the
letter which had brought the news of young Robert Estridge’s loss, but it
could not be, for the old man sitting there had forgotten that and was
expecting the son home on that day.
Ike took the comforter to his master, and began in the old way: “Miss
Cla’iny Randolph mek huh comperments to you, Mas’ Bob, an’ say—” But his
master had turned and was looking him square in the face, and something
in the look checked his flow of words. Colonel Estridge did not extend
his hand to take the gift. “Clarinda Randolph,” he said, “always sends me
gloves.” His tone was not angry, but it was cold and sorrowful. “Lay it
down,” he went on more kindly and pointing to the comforter, “and you may
go now. I will get whatever I want from the table.” Ike did not dare to
demur. He slipped away, embarrassed and distressed.
“Wha’ ’d I tell you?” he asked Lize, as soon as he reached the cabin. “I
believe he done woke up.” But the old woman could only mourn and wring
her hands.
“Well, nevah min’,” said Ike, after his first moment of sad triumph was
over. “I guess it wasn’t the comfo’t nohow, ’ca’se I seed him wif a
letteh when I went in, but I didn’t ’spicion nuffin’ tell he look at me
an’ talk jes’ ez sensible ez me er you.”
It was not until dinner-time that Ike found courage to go back to his
master’s room, and then he did not find him sitting in his accustomed
place, nor was he on the porch or in the hall.
Growing alarmed, the old servant searched high and low for him, until he
came to the door of a long-disused room. A bundle of keys hung from the
keyhole.
“Hyeah’s whah he got dat letteh,” said Ike. “I reckon he come to put it
back.” But even as he spoke, his eyes bulged with apprehension. He opened
the door farther, and went in. And there at last his search was ended.
Colonel Estridge was on his knees before an old oak chest. On the floor
about him were scattered pair on pair of home-knit gloves. He was very
still. His head had fallen forward on the edge of the chest. Ike went
up to him and touched his shoulder. There was no motion in response.
The black man lifted his master’s head. The face was pale and cold and
lifeless. In the stiffening hand was clenched a pair of gloves,—the last
Miss Randolph had ever really knit for him. The servant lifted up the
lifeless form, and laid it upon the bed. When Lize came she would have
wept and made loud lamentations, but Ike checked her. “Keep still,” he
said. “Pray if you want to, but don’t hollah. We ought to be proud,
Lize.” His shoulders were thrown back and his head was up. “Mas’ Bob’s in
glory. Dis is Virginia’s Christmas gif’ to Gawd!”
THE TRIAL SERMONS ON BULL-SKIN
THE TRIAL SERMONS ON BULL-SKIN
The congregation on Bull-Skin Creek was without a pastor. You will
probably say that this was a deficiency easily remedied among a people
who possess so much theological material. But you will instantly perceive
how different a matter it was, when you learn that the last shepherd who
had guided the flock at Bull-skin had left that community under a cloud.
There were, of course, those who held with the departed minister, as well
as those who were against him; and so two parties arose in the church,
each contending for supremacy. Each party refused to endorse any measure
or support any candidate suggested by the other; and as neither was
strong enough to run the church alone, they were in a state of inactive
equipoise very gratifying to that individual who is supposed to take
delight in the discomfort of the righteous.
It was in this complicated state of affairs that Brother Hezekiah
Sneedon, who was the representative of one of the candidates for the
vacant pastorate, conceived and proposed a way out of the difficulty.
Brother Sneedon’s proposition was favourably acted upon by the whole
congregation, because it held out the promise of victory to each party.
It was, in effect, as follows:
Each faction—it had come to be openly recognised that there were two
factions—should name its candidate, and then they should be invited
to preach, on successive Sundays, trial sermons before the whole
congregation, the preacher making the better impression to be called as
pastor.
“And,” added Brother Sneedon, pacifically, “in ordah dat dis little
diffunce between de membahs may be settled in ha’mony, I do hope an’ pray
dat de pahty dat fin’s itse’f outpreached will give up to de othah in
Christun submission, an’ th’ow in all deir might to hol’ up de han’s of
whatever pastor de Lawd may please to sen’.”
[Illustration: BROTHER HEZEKIAH SNEEDON.]
Sister Hannah Williams, the leader of the opposing faction, expressed
herself as well pleased with the plan, and counselled a like submission
to the will of the majority. And thus the difficulty at Bull-skin seemed
in a fair way to settlement. But could any one have read that lady’s
thoughts as she wended her homeward way after the meeting, he would have
had some misgivings concerning the success of the proposition which she
so willingly endorsed. For she was saying to herself,—
“Uh huh! ol’ Kiah Sneedon thinks he’s mighty sma’t, puttin’ up dat plan.
Reckon he thinks ol’ Abe Ma’tin kin outpreach anything near an’ fur, but
ef Brothah ’Lias Smith don’t fool him, I ain’t talkin’.”
And Brother Sneedon himself was not entirely guiltless of some selfish
thought as he hobbled away from the church door.
“Ann,” said he to his wife, “I wunner ef Hannah Williams ca’culates dat
’Lias Smith kin beat Brother Abe Ma’tin preachin’, ki yi! but won’t she
be riley when she fin’s out how mistaken she is? Why, dey ain’t nobody
’twixt hyeah an’ Louisville kin beat Brothah Abe Ma’tin preachin’. I’s
hyeahed dat man preach ’twell de winders rattled an’ it seemed lak de
skies mus’ come down anyhow, an’ sinnahs was a-fallin’ befo’ de Wo’d
lak leaves in a Novembah blas’; an’ she ’lows to beat him, oomph!” The
“oomph” meant disgust, incredulity, and, above all, resistance.
The first of the momentous Sundays had been postponed two weeks, in
order, it was said, to allow the members to get the spiritual and
temporal elements of the church into order that would be pleasing to the
eyes of a new pastor. In reality, Brother Sneedon and Sister Williams
used the interval of time to lay their plans and to marshal their
forces. And during the two weeks previous to the Sunday on which, by
common consent, it had been agreed to invite the Reverend Elias Smith to
preach, there was an ominous quiet on the banks of Bull-Skin,—the calm
that precedes a great upheaval, when clouds hang heavy with portents and
forebodings, but silent withal.
But there were events taking place in which the student of diplomacy
might have found food for research and reflection. Such an event was the
taffy-pulling which Sister Williams’ daughters, Dora and Caroline, gave
to the younger members of the congregation on Thursday evening. Such were
the frequent incursions of Sister Williams herself upon the domains of
the neighbours, with generous offerings of “a taste o’ my ketchup” or “a
sample o’ my jelly.” She did not stop with rewarding her own allies, but
went farther, gift-bearing, even into the camp of the enemy himself.
It was on Friday morning that she called on Sister Sneedon. She found the
door ajar and pushed it open, saying, “You see, Sis’ Sneedon, I’s jes’
walkin’ right in.”
“Oh, it’s you, Sis’ Williams; dat’s right, come in. I was jes’ settin’
hyeah sawtin’ my cyahpet rags, de mof do seem to pestah ’em so. Tek dis
cheer”—industriously dusting one with her apron. “How you be’n sence I
seen you las’?”
“Oh, jes’ sawt o’ so.”
“How’s Do’ an’ Ca’line?”
“Oh, Ca’line’s peart enough, but Do’s feelin’ kind o’ peekid.”
“Don’t you reckon she grow too fas’?”
“’Spec’ dat’s about hit; dat gal do sutny seem to run up lak a weed.”
“It don’t nevah do ’em no good to grow so fas’, hit seem to tek away all
deir strengf.”
“Yes, ’m, it sholy do; gals ain’t whut dey used to be in yo’ an’ my day,
nohow.”
“Lawd, no; dey’s ez puny ez white folks now.”
“Well, dem sholy is lovely cyahpet rags—put’ nigh all wool, ain’t dey?”
“Yes, ma’am, dey is wool, evah speck an’ stitch; dey ain’t a bit o’
cotton among ’em. I ain’t lak some folks; I don’t b’lieve in mixin’ my
rags evah-which-way. Den when you gits ’em wove have de cyahpet wah in
holes, ’cause some’ll stan’ a good deal o’ strain an’ some won’t; yes,
’m, dese is evah one wool.”
“An’ you sholy have be’n mighty indust’ous in gittin’ ’em togethah.”
“I’s wo’ked ha’d an’ done my level bes’, dat’s sho.”
“Dat’s de mos’ any of us kin do. But I mustn’t be settin’ hyeah talkin’
all day an’ keepin’ you f’om yo’ wo’k. Why, la! I’d mos’ nigh fu’got what
I come fu’—I jes’ brung you ovah a tas’e o’ my late greens. I knows how
you laks greens, so I thought mebbe you’d enjoy dese.”
“Why, sho enough; now ain’t dat good o’ you, Sis’ Williams? Dey’s right
wa’m, too, an’ tu’nip tops—bless me! Why, dese mus’ be de ve’y las’
greens o’ de season.”
“Well, I reely don’t think you’ll fin’ none much latah. De fros’ had done
teched dese, but I kin’ o’ kivered ’em up wif leaves ontwell dey growed
up wuf cuttin’.”
“Well, I knows I sholy shell relish dem.” Mrs. Sneedon beamed as she
emptied the dish and insisted upon washing it for her visitor to take
home with her. “Fu’,” she said, by way of humour, “I’s a mighty po’ han’
to retu’n nice dishes when I gits ’em in my cu’boa’d once.”
Sister Williams rose to go. “Well, you’ll be out to chu’ch Sunday to
hyeah Broth’ ’Lias Smith; he’s a powahful man, sho.”
“Dey do tell me so. I’ll be thah. You kin ’pend on me to be out whenevah
thah’s to be any good preachin’.”
“Well, we kin have dat kin’ o’ preachin’ all de time ef we gits Broth’
’Lias Smith.”
“Yes, ’m.”
“Dey ain’t no ’sputin’ he’ll be a movin’ powah at Bull-Skin.”
“Yes, ’m.”
“We sistahs’ll have to ban’ togethah an’ try to do whut is bes’ fu’ de
chu’ch.”
“Yes, ’m.”
“Co’se, Sistah Sneedon, ef you’s pleased wif his sermon, I suppose you’ll
be in favoh o’ callin’ Broth’ ’Lias Smith.”
“Well, Sis’ Williams, I do’ know; you see Hezekier’s got his hea’t sot on
Broth’ Abe Ma’tin fum Dokesville; he’s mighty sot on him, an’ when he’s
sot he’s sot, an’ you know how it is wif us women when de men folks says
dis er dat.”
Sister Williams saw that she had overshot her mark. “Oh, hit’s all right,
Sis’ Sneedon, hit’s all right. I jes’ spoke of it a-wunnerin’. What we
women folks wants to do is to ban’ togethah to hol’ up de han’ of de
pastah dat comes, whoms’ever he may be.”
“Dat’s hit, dat’s hit,” assented her companion; “an’ you kin ’pend on me
thah, fu’ I’s a powahful han’ to uphol’ de ministah whoms’ever he is.”
“An’ you right too, fu’ dey’s de shepuds of de flock. Well, I mus’ be
goin’—come ovah.”
“I’s a-comin’—come ag’in yo’se’f, good-bye.”
As soon as her visitor was gone, Sister Sneedon warmed over the greens
and sat down to the enjoyment of them. She had just finished the last
mouthful when her better half entered. He saw the empty plate and the
green liquor. Evidently he was not pleased, for be it said that Brother
Sneedon had himself a great tenderness for turnip greens.
“Wha’d you git dem greens?” he asked.
“Sistah Hannah Williams brung ’em ovah to me.”
“Sistah Hannah—who?” ejaculated he.
“Sis’ Williams, Sis’ Williams, you know Hannah Williams.”
“What! dat wolf in sheep’s clothin’ dat’s a-gwine erroun’ a-seekin’ who
she may devowah, an’ you hyeah a-projickin’ wif huh, eatin’ de greens she
gives you! How you know whut’s in dem greens?”
“Oh, g’long, ’Kiah, you so funny! Sis’ Williams ain’t gwine conju’
nobidy.”
“You hyeah me, you hyeah me now. Keep on foolin’ wif dat ooman, she’ll
have you crawlin’ on yo’ knees an’ ba’kin, lak a dog. She kin do it, she
kin do it, fu’ she’s long-haided, I tell you.”
“Well, ef she wants to hu’t me it’s done, fu’ I’s eat de greens now.”
“Yes,” exclaimed Brother Sneedon, “you eat ’em up lak a hongry hog an’
never saved me a smudgeon.”
“Oomph! I thought you’s so afeard o’ gittin’ conju’ed.”
“Heish up! you’s allus tryin’ to raise some kin’ er contentions in de
fambly. I nevah seed a ooman lak you.” And old Hezekiah strode out of the
cabin in high dudgeon.
And so, smooth on the surface, but turbulent beneath, the stream of days
flowed on until the Sunday on which Reverend Elias Smith was to preach
his trial sermon. His fame as a preacher, together with the circumstances
surrounding this particular sermon, had brought together such a crowd as
the little church on Bull-Skin had never seen before even in the heat
of the most successful revivals. Outsiders had come from as far away as
Christiansburg, which was twelve, and Fox Run, which was fifteen miles
distant, and the church was crowded to the doors.
Sister Williams with her daughters Dora and Caroline were early in their
seats. Their ribbons were fluttering to the breeze like the banners of
an aggressive host. There were smiles of anticipated triumph upon their
faces. Brother and Sister Sneedon arrived a little later. They took
their seat far up in the “amen corner,” directly behind the Williams
family. Sister Sneedon sat very erect and looked about her, but her
spouse leaned his chin upon his cane and gazed at the floor, nor did he
raise his head, when, preceded by a buzz of expectancy, the Reverend
Elias Smith, accompanied by Brother Abner Williams, who was a local
preacher, entered and ascended to the pulpit, where he knelt in silent
prayer.
At the entrance of their candidate, the female portion of the Williams
family became instantly alert.
They were all attention when the husband and father arose and gave out
the hymn: “Am I a Soldier of the Cross?” They joined lustily in the
singing, and at the lines, “Sure I must fight if I would reign,” their
voices rose in a victorious swell far above the voices of the rest of the
congregation. Prayer followed, and then Brother Williams rose and said,—
“Brothahs an’ sistahs, I teks gret pleasuah in interducin’ to you Eldah
Smith, of Dokeville, who will preach fu’ us at dis howah. I want to
speak fu’ him yo’ pra’ful attention.” Sister Williams nodded her head in
approval, even this much was good; but Brother Sneedon sighed aloud.
The Reverend Elias Smith arose and glanced over the congregation. He was
young, well-appearing, and looked as though he might have been unmarried.
He announced his text in a clear, resonant voice: “By deir fruits shell
you know dem.”
The great change that gave to the blacks fairly trained ministers from
the schools had not at this time succeeded their recently accomplished
emancipation. And the sermon of Elder Smith was full of all the fervour,
common-sense, and rude eloquence of the old plantation exhorter. He
spoke to his hearers in the language that they understood, because he
himself knew no other. He drew his symbols and illustrations from the
things which he saw most commonly about him,—things which he and his
congregation understood equally well. He spent no time in dallying
about the edge of his subject, but plunged immediately into the middle
of things, and soon had about him a shouting, hallooing throng of
frantic people. Of course it was the Williams faction who shouted. The
spiritual impulse did not seem to reach those who favoured Brother
Sneedon’s candidate. They sat silent and undemonstrative. That earnest
disciple himself still sat with his head bent upon his cane, and still
at intervals sighed audibly. He had only raised his head once, and that
was when some especially powerful period in the sermon had drawn from
the partner of his joys and sorrows an appreciative “Oomph!” Then the
look that he shot forth from his eyes, so full of injury, reproach, and
menace, repressed her noble rage and settled her back into a quietude
more consonant with her husband’s ideas.
Meanwhile, Sister Hannah Williams and her sylph-like daughters “Do” and
“Ca’line” were in an excess of religious frenzy. Whenever any of the
other women in the congregation seemed to be working their way too far
forward, those enthusiastic sisters shouted their way directly across the
approach to the pulpit, and held place there with such impressive and
menacing demonstrativeness that all comers were warned back. There had
been times when, actuated by great religious fervour, women had ascended
the rostrum and embraced the minister. Rest assured, nothing of that kind
happened in this case, though the preacher waxed more and more eloquent
as he proceeded,—an eloquence more of tone, look, and gesture than of
words. He played upon the emotions of his willing hearers, except those
who had steeled themselves against his power, as a skilful musician upon
the strings of his harp. At one time they were boisterously exultant, at
another they were weeping and moaning, as if in the realisation of many
sins. The minister himself lowered his voice to a soft rhythmical moan,
almost a chant, as he said,—
“You go ’long by de road an’ you see an ol’ shabby tree a-standin’ in de
o’chud. It ain’t ha’dly got a apple on it. Its leaves are put’ nigh all
gone. You look at de branches, dey’s all rough an’ crookid. De tree’s all
full of sticks an’ stones an’ wiah an’ ole tin cans. Hit’s all bruised
up an’ hit’s a ha’d thing to look at altogether. You look at de tree an’
whut do you say in yo’ hea’t? You say de tree ain’t no ’count, fu’ ‘by
deir fruits shell you know dem.’ But you wrong, my frien’s, you wrong.
Dat tree did ba’ good fruit, an’ by hits fruit was hit knowed. John tol’
Gawge an’ Gawge tol’ Sam, an’ evah one dat passed erlong de road had
to have a shy at dat fruit. Dey be’n th’owin’ at dat tree evah sence
hit begun to ba’ fruit, an’ dey’s ’bused hit so dat hit couldn’t grow
straight to save hits life. Is dat whut’s de mattah wif you, brothah,
all bent ovah yo’ staff an’ a-groanin’ wif yo’ burdens? Is dat whut’s
de mattah wif you, brothah, dat yo’ steps are a-weary an’ you’s longin’
fu’ yo’ home? Have dey be’n th’owin’ stones an’ cans at you? Have dey
be’n beatin’ you wif sticks? Have dey tangled you up in ol’ wiah twell
you couldn’t move han’ ner foot? Have de way be’n all trouble? Have de
sky be’n all cloud? Have de sun refused to shine an’ de day be’n all
da’kness? Don’t git werry, be consoled. Whut de mattah! Why, I tell you
you ba’in’ good fruit, an’ de debbil cain’t stan’ it—‘By deir fruits
shell you know dem.’
“You go ’long de road a little furder an’ you see a tree standin’ right
by de fence. Standin’ right straight up in de air, evah limb straight out
in hits place, all de leaves green an’ shinin’ an’ lovely. Not a stick
ner a stone ner a can in sight. You look ’way up in de branches, an’ dey
hangin’ full o’ fruit, big an’ roun’ an’ solid. You look at dis tree an’
whut now do you say in yo’ hea’t? You say dis is a good tree, fu’ ‘by
deir fruits shell you know dem.’ But you wrong, you wrong ag’in, my
frien’s. De apples on dat tree are so sowah dat dey’d puckah up yo’ mouf
wuss ’n a green pu’simmon, an’ evahbidy knows hit, by hits fruit is hit
knowed. Dey don’t want none o’ dat fruit, an’ dey pass hit by an’ don’t
bothah dey haids about it.
“Look out, brothah, you gwine erlong thoo dis worl’ sailin’ on flowery
beds of ease. Look out, my sistah, you’s a-walkin’ in de sof’ pafs an’
a-dressin’ fine. Ain’t nobidy a-troublin’ you, nobidy ain’t a-backbitin’
you, nobidy ain’t a-castin’ yo’ name out as evil. You all right an’
movin’ smoov. But I want you to stop an’ ’zamine yo’se’ves. I want you to
settle whut kin’ o’ fruit you ba’in’, whut kin’ o’ light you showin’ fo’f
to de worl’. An’ I want you to stop an’ tu’n erroun’ when you fin’ out
dat you ba’in’ bad fruit, an’ de debbil ain’t bothahed erbout you ’ca’se
he knows you his’n anyhow. ‘By deir fruits shell you know dem.’”
The minister ended his sermon, and the spell broke. Collection was called
for and taken, and the meeting dismissed.
“Wha’ ’d you think o’ dat sermon?” asked Sister Williams of one of her
good friends; and the good friend answered,—
“Tsch, pshaw! dat man jes’ tuk his tex’ at de fust an’ nevah lef’ it.”
Brother Sneedon remarked to a friend: “Well, he did try to use a good
deal o’ high langgidge, but whut we want is grace an’ speritual feelin’.”
The Williams faction went home with colours flying. They took the
preacher to dinner. They were exultant. The friends of Brother Sneedon
were silent but thoughtful.
It was true, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the Reverend Elias Smith
had made a wonderful impression upon his hearers,—an impression that
might not entirely fade away before the night on which the new pastor
was to be voted for. Comments on the sermon did not end with the closing
of that Sabbath day. The discussion of its excellences was prolonged
into the next week, and continued with a persistency dangerous to the
aspirations of any rival candidate. No one was more fully conscious of
this menacing condition of affairs than Hezekiah Sneedon himself. He
knew that for the minds of the people to rest long upon the exploits
of Elder Smith would be fatal to the chances of his own candidate; so
he set about inventing some way to turn the current of public thought
into another channel. And nothing but a powerful agency could turn it.
But in fertility of resources Hezekiah Sneedon was Napoleonic. Though
his diplomacy was greatly taxed in this case, he came out victorious
and with colours flying when he hit upon the happy idea of a “’possum
supper.” That would give the people something else to talk about beside
the Reverend Elias Smith and his wonderful sermon. But think not, O
reader, that the intellect that conceived this new idea was so lacking
in the essential qualities of diplomacy as to rush in his substitute,
have done with it, and leave the public’s attention to revert to its
former object. Brother Sneedon was too wary for this. Indeed, he did send
his invitations out early to the congregation; but this only aroused
discussion and created anticipation which was allowed to grow and gather
strength until the very Saturday evening on which the event occurred.
Sister Hannah Williams saw through the plot immediately, but she could
not play counter, so she contented herself with saying: “Dat Hezekiah
Sneedon is sholy de bigges’ scamp dat evah trod shoe-leathah.” But
nevertheless, she did not refuse an invitation to be present at the
supper. She would go, she said, for the purpose of seeing “how things
went on.” But she added, as a sort of implied apology to her conscience,
“and den I’s powahful fond o’ ’possum, anyhow.”